Aspiring to the Light

Upon exiting the elfgate through the Thalassian Pass and entering the Eastweald, everything was eerily quiet. Too much, so, for the bedraggled rust-colored countryside. Selowyn held her breath, ready for something – anything – to happen. Only when the small traveling contingent reached Light’s Hope at last without incident, she finally exhaled.

Torches echoed on stone and wood, fire splashing across the walls in warm rising and falling crescendos of flame. Smiling as she entered the side gate, the flames did little to lighten the tense mood, the few Dawn and Crusade stragglers hyper-vigilant and wary. She noted mostly tradespersons and not one paladin among them until Lord Maxwell Tyrosus emerged from the chapel, beelining her direction with that purposeful stride he was known for.

“Madam,” he said with a bow, his rumbling, gravely baritone washing over her, clipped and preoccupied. “A pleasure to have you here. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“My Lord,” Selowyn intoned, inclining her head, “It is a pleasure to see you hale and whole, I am genuinely relieved. But you are so understaffed…” She glanced around again, incredulously. Personnel levels here were skimpier than Hearthglen, and the locale thrice as endangered. “And pardon the implied question but…I’m surprised you are still here?”

He nodded, a shadow momentarily darkening his stern countenance. “I am not sure why. I have faithfully served the Light throughout my life, confessor. Even lost an eye along the way. Some are stronger paladins than me, but not many. But outside a few defenders and our squires, nearly everyone was taken to Silvermoon to stop the Void. Perhaps I have done something to displease the Light’s favor. Of what, I cannot fathom.”

She nodded, thoughts drifting to Vadinnar, and her own exclusion from the effort. “Regardless, it seems you were needed to protect Light’s Hope.” Perhaps I was, as well…

He cleared his throat, rolling a shoulder. “Perhaps. While I am here, I will certainly do my best to serve the Light, no matter what. Though I still wonder why I was not called upon.” He drifted off momentarily into his own reverie before snapping back to attention, searching her face with his good eye. “What I can say with clarity is that, with so many defenders called away to the Sunwell, the Scourge nearly broke through to the chapel. I’ve called for assistance from the Ebon Blade, but we could use your help pushing back the Scourge.”

The Ebon Blade! Her stomach fluttered at the name.

Mistaking the astonished look on her face while correctly surmising the sour expressions of her traveling companions, he held up a hand. “Darion owed me a favor, and he is paying it back in kind. And he has no desire to see the Void come closer to a triumph over Azeroth. So, when I asked for help, the Ebon Blade stepped up to assist us.”

She shook her head, pressing forward with her concern. “After our travails in Eversong, we encountered not a single issue the rest of our way here. I am worried that means something is direly amiss.” Grimly, he nodded. “As I suspected. Madam, I hate to cut this short, but I’m going to need you to make your way to the Silver Hand enclave beneath the chapel or prepare yourself for battle. We are expecting an attack at any moment. I’m afraid it’s too late to leave.” The torchlight glinted off his armor as he surveyed the compound.

Catching movement, Selowyn glanced toward the chapel to see none other than Alonsus Faol himself and Arator, son of Alleria, stepping out from the shadows, nodding respectfully in their direction as they approached. “I should have known the situation at Light’s Hope would be dire, Confessor Sunhawk, with so many of their paladins at the Sunwell,” the bishop intoned, leaning on his staff, his raspy voice echoing with the enchanted pallor of his undead state.

Absorbing his words, she bit her lip, military calculations streaming through her mind. Standing up a bit taller, the Major nodded at Maxwell, then Alonsus and Arator. “My Lords, I wouldn’t dream of trying to depart. Just as the Light saw fit to leave you behind, so too it has brought me here. It must be for good reason. Count me in.”

~~~

The night was long and full of terror.

None of them expected the singular assault thrust upon them with the setting of the sun. Wave after wave after wave of Scourge threw themselves at the compound as the scarce forces did their best to stem the tide.

True to his word, Highlord Darion Mograine and a contingent of his knights arrived within the blue hour, wordlessly taking position at each entrance to Light’s Hope and valiantly holding the line.

Selowyn started out upon the ramparts, her Argent tabard practically glowing in the gloaming. Ringing her bell to inspire confidence, sending waves of radiant penance bolts upon mindless undead that came too close to her wall, she focused healing energies toward those who took injuries or fell upon the battlefield.

After several hours of fighting, a grotesquely huge abomination broke through the line and threw itself at the wall where the confessor worked, shaking it to the foundation. Dust rattled off old stones as the dense, fleshy body compromised the mortar, stones crumbling and falling like a child’s toy blocks. Selowyn tried to dodge the breach but lost her footing and yelped, plummeting toward the ground below.

Miraculously, she hovered just before impact – it was Faol, his arm and fingers outstretched as he willed her gently to the grass. She smiled grimly at him from across the battlefield as she dusted herself off. Lowering his arm, he nodded as he shuffled past with Arator, the synergy of sword and stave providing a formidable first line of defense.

The abomination wasn’t done. Shaking itself like a wet dog, gore flying, it stood once more, towering above the Thalassian; lazily turning an eye upon her. Tightening her grip upon her mace in her right hand, with her left she rang her liturgical bell like a clarion into the darkness. “You do not frighten me! The Light guides me, even here!” The vile creation winced at the sound but managed a gurgled chortle, tossing out a chain which snaked around her ankle. Down she finally went, mace flying into the shadows as she was dragged unceremoniously toward the creature. “No!” she yelled, fingernails filling with dirt as she searched for purchase.

And again, suddenly, her momentum was halted. Rolling over, she smeared dust across her cheek as she sought to clear the matted hair from her eyes. Standing over her was a death knight, pale of hair and handsome of face, his pale coloration in stark contrast to saronite armor.

Yanking his greatsword from the abomination’s huge gut, he shifted position slightly and reached out for her hand. “Well, that’s finished. Come, milady. We’ve work to do.”

“Kol…Koltira Deathweaver?” she breathed, shaking the chain off as she reached for his strong hand.

He nodded. “None other, confessor. I’ve got your back, if you’ve got mine.”

That voice, that face…it was so similar to... She didn’t move, remaining prone on the ground. “It was…you. It was YOU.” She stared, blue eyes wide with the haze of memory, tears gathering in the corners. “You are the one who carried me from the Citadel,” she whispered in Thalassian, the puzzle pieces finally locking into place after all these years. .

“Shh…” the darkfallen hushed her, kneeling down, removing his glove to delicately reach out and stroke her face, removing some of the dust, perhaps a tear. His fingers were cold to the touch, but not unwelcome. “Ah, yes, yes. I remember. You were so feather-light, after all that time with Lana’thel. And the Ashen Verdict nearly left you for dead! Tsk tsk. But - let’s focus on the task at hand my dear, hmm?” He murmured in their shared tongue. “We can reminisce later.” Lichfire eyes searched her face, nodding encouragingly.

“You saved my life. Then, and now. I--”

Koltira cut her off, tugging her to rise. “And I would a third time. I shall serve. Protecting the innocent, it’s what I live for.” He smirked, the emphasis on ‘live’ not lost upon her.

Smiling, she rose with him. “I’m not sure how innocent I am anymore, but here we are.”

Sliding his glove back on he arched a silvery brow, hefting his greatsword. “Oh, is that so? How intriguing! Yes, indeed, let’s chat. Later.” And with that, the pair joined Thassarian to defend the abomination’s ragged breach in the wall.

As the night grew long, the fight continued. There was no end to the undead, and for every two defeated, four more seemed to take their place. Selowyn was reminded time and again of Northrend. And just like then, she was determined to stay, to persevere, to win the day. Eventually her tabard was too torn up to recognize, her bell dented and unable to make music.

She willed the magic from within, her voice her instrument as the chanted; a marvel of healing and warding as the pair of death knights made short work of their foes and created openings for her to shepherd the wounded. “No one left behind,” she murmured, gritting her teeth and squeezing her ironwood ring when her stamina flagged, calling upon light and shadow alike to serve the needs of her flock. She willed Vadinnar to feel her energy, her resolve, and echo it in kind at the Sunwell.

~~~

By first light, the fight was finally over. Undead littered the fields as far as the eye could see around Light’s Hope. No casualties, though there were numerous injured, some critical.

Maxwell approached her, clamping a broad hand upon her shoulder. Adjusting his eyepatch, he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth, smiling wanly. “Well, madam. The one good thing to come out of my not being called to the Sunwell is that I was able to coordinate a defense of Light’s Hope.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” Selowyn rasped, exhausted. “Indeed.”

Glancing toward the sun breaking through the clouds, she thought of she efforts back home. How these reverberations of the voidstorm were ebbing out and across the land, wreaking such havoc. It must be stopped.

Dizzy. Flung toward a bed. Wrist aching, she tumbles down in a shamble of silks and chiffon as her enchanted blade slides across the floor, glimmering smears of life’s blood in its wake. 

Sorrowhawk is tired. So tired. It took nearly every drop of energy to do what was required. Crimson mist plays across her vision, inviting her as always to give in. And so she dissociates, floating without conscious thought. The moments of clarity are fewer and farther between, now.

There is the distant sound of another arrival, followed by an echoing slam. Items crashing to the floor. An angry tirade of colorful curses. A cork unfastening. 

Startled back to consciousness, she cracks an eye. Fanotheril wraps his dark robes about his gaunt form as he holds a filled wine glass and ponders. Still formidable-looking despite the turn of the evening. Pacing in deep thought as wine is consumed and white hot anger is quelled. Eventual slowing, as plots thicken in his agile mind.

Finally the Master Cultist quieted down, slumping in a chair with his consolation prize.

Snorting softly, she rolled over, giving in to exhaustion. 

Time passes… An empty glass is pushed across the table. With a yawn and a stretch as if everything was, is, and always would be under control, he rises; smoothes his robes, and stalks toward her prone form. 

“Yes, yes. I know what comes next.” His voice, strangely timbre’d and far too close for comfort, held two meanings and her senses flared to life. “Mal—!” A sharp twist of his fingers, and she is silenced.

“Come now, just a taste,” he reassures her, as he kneels, fingers beginning to roam.

Just a taste. Of all the things to say…why…   Ah…

And so, it begins again. The infernal loop, on repeat since Icecrown, when she first fell at Corp’rethar. The former paladin and once plaything of the San’layn Blood Matriarch; rescued at the 11th hour by an Ebon. Doubting and broken, she was able to rebuild her faith and don the cloth, using her words and ability to relate rather than a sword to bring Light and justice to the world. She had re-found a place within the Crusade and stood shoulder to shoulder with heroes. 

And then Damnedfate. She who had continued the Matriarch’s work. And… now this. The work complete, and beholden to Master Cultist Nightwind. How far could one fall?

Truly she was alone, in a suffocating vacuum like that space between stars.

Her Shadow, beholden to another mistress; content to isolate and watch the unfolding carnage in Zul’Aman from afar. 

Her comrades of the Coalition. Her friends, if she could still call them that; so far away. They reviled her and were inaccessible. 

Her love… 

She thought his name, since she could not speak it. ‘Vadinnar…disregard me. Take them away, keep them safe. Do this, for me…’

Tear-edged eyes closed tightly. Truly, she was cursed. Better they leave her to her fate and be consumed by the void, and find what peace they can in clear Thalassian skies.